Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “We'll try Prennell's in the Edgware Road. If we have no joy there I'll admit defeat, and we'll beetle off home.”

  By the time we alighted outside the show-rooms of the main Morris dealer, it was half-past three, and I was hot, sticky and tired. The vehicles in the windows and forecourt were all beyond my budget. Nevertheless my uncle insisted that we enquire inside.

  The salesman, young, saturnine, in a sharp suit and with a sharp pencil moustache, shook his head doubtfully when I mentioned my price limit of three hundred pounds.

  “We only do quality cars, Sir ... Hang abaht (as I turned to leave), we've just 'ad a Morris Minor delivered today – part-exchange, nineteen fifty-eight model ... Why not take a look at 'er?”

  At the back – near the entrance to the service section – stood a grey Morris Minor 1000 – somewhat grimy in contrast to all the shiny models displayed around the front.

  Frank Barnes was my mother's cousin, a round jovial solicitor with a twinkling eye and slow deliberate movements. He was a car enthusiast, and had owned one since before the war; now he examined the Morris minutely: tyres, paintwork, engine, car interior. I stood, watching, impressed.

  “How much?” he asked at last.

  “Three-fifty nicker ...”

  “Two-fifty ...”

  “Two-seven-five ...”

  Frank turned his head fractionally, and I nodded.

  “Done!”

  I was the proud owner of a Morris Minor 1000.

  I shall call it “Fred”, I mused.

  It was half-past four on a Saturday afternoon – far too busy for me to venture to drive home myself, in the rush hour, through the centre of London. The salesman took my cheque, glanced at my driving licence, and secured insurance cover for me. In ten minutes, the paper-work complete, Frank was in the driver's seat, while, thankfully, I was perched in the passenger's seat next to him. He started the car, moved out into the Edgware Road, and skilfully navigated the Morris Minor through the busy traffic of the West End of London, heading for Clapham Common.

  My day was not over. After a cold snack supper, which Uncle Frank shared with us, he suggested a drive to give me some practice in the new car.

  “How about a quick trip to Richmond Park, Edwin? The traffic has eased and there's still plenty of daylight ... Should be quite pleasant.”

  The sun was bright, but the day had cooled; a few clouds glinted pink over the roof-tops. Frank got ostentatiously into the passenger's side, and I took the driver's seat. I moved the seat as far forward as possible, adjusted the rear and wing mirrors and fiddled with the pedals, gear-lever and hand brake, trying to get a feel for the car. I inserted the key into the ignition, pulled out the choke half-way, and tried the starter. To my surprise the motor fired immediately.

  I waved to Mum and Jane, checked the mirrors again, engaged first gear, eased off the hand brake, and gently let up the clutch. The car moved slowly away from the kerb, while my heart beat like a steam-hammer.

  “We'll just take a turn around the back streets for a couple minutes, while you get the hang of the controls ...”

  I drove in light traffic along Clapham Common North Side, skirting the Common until we came onto the South Circular Road, and somewhat denser traffic; through Clapham Junction, up Battersea Rise, past Wandsworth Common; then down a steep hill into Wandsworth High Street, past the Town Hall, and finally up West Hill – where Jill had been at school, I suddenly remembered – now the A3 dual carriage-way. As I zoomed down the other side of the hill, I found my spirits and my confidence soaring. At Robin Hood roundabout I entered Richmond Park, and slowed to twenty-five miles an hour on the narrow empty road – hardly more than a track. The sun, a large copper orb, was sinking behind the majestic oak and horse-chestnut trees now in full leaf. Herds of red and fallow deer stood motionless, watching us pass. All was still, not a leaf stirred. I wound down the window and inhaled the fresh, mild air of a glorious summer's evening.

  Magic, I thought.

  “They'll be locking the gates soon, Edwin ...”

  Uncle Frank's laconic voice broke into my reverie. The imposing bulk of the Star and Garter Hospital came into view, and I exited the park through Richmond Gate.

  “Turn right here ...” and I drove down Richmond Hill with brief but rewarding views of the winding River Thames far below us to the left. In the narrow streets of Richmond Town – almost every building a café, a boutique or an antique shop – the pavements were still thronged with gaily dressed crowds in holiday mood. We crawled past Richmond Green and the lovely little Victorian theatre, emerging finally on the Kew Roundabout. The sun had set, and the new halogen street lamps shone red, orange, yellow, as they warmed up; the orange-pink afterglow in the west merged into the pearl-grey of the sky, the sharply stencilled silhouettes of the roof-tops a stark black against this backdrop.

  I had never driven in the dark before, and was suddenly apprehensive.

  “Best put your lights on, Edwin; then you can see where you're going ...”

  Frank found the switch, and the street ahead lit up – and with it my spirits. My uncle navigated me confidently through the sparse traffic of the Upper Richmond Road, past Putney, until we were once more in Wandsworth and I was in familiar territory. It had been an exhilarating experience.

  “Drop me off at Clapham Common Tube station, Edwin ... I need to get home myself.”

  My head was still filled with thoughts of my exploits.

  “Thanks for everything, Uncle Frank ...”

  I hadn't time to invite him home for a drink, before the passenger door had banged shut, and he had disappeared down the stairs at the station entrance ...

  3

  Sunday, 8th August: I crossed London Bridge at twenty miles an hour in the light Sunday afternoon traffic, and threaded my way carefully through the centre of the City of London; at Moorgate I picked up the first signposts for “A1 and The North”. Yesterday's bright sunshine had vanished, and the sky looked threatening.

  This was the first time I was driving alone, and my mind was in a whirl: would I be able to navigate myself all the way to Hitchin? And would I cope with the faster traffic on the trunk road? After my hour's practice with Frank yesterday, I was weary, even before I had set off on today's journey.

  I glanced at my watch – four-thirty. I had been driving for one and a half hours; I was on a smooth dual carriage-way, heading directly north on the Great North Road. Houses were becoming sparser, fields turned gently around me and occasional factories stood out against the sky-line. Though the road seemed to flash past my side window, the speedometer registered barely forty-five miles an hour; even heavy lorries were overtaking me effortlessly. The clouds thickened, darkness descended and I was dazzled by the headlights of oncoming vehicles. By the time I reached Hatfield, the heavens opened; the flying spray added to my misery, and the windscreen wipers struggled to cope with the mass of water;

  Finally, I pulled the little Morris Minor into a lay-by, where I sat for a full ten minutes, shaking violently, while the traffic hurtled by in the gloom. At last I recovered my self-possession sufficiently to pull out a map and scan it by torchlight: about four miles on, at Welwyn, I could turn off the A1 onto the B656 which would take me the rest of the way to Hitchin. I put away the map, switched on the engine, and eased back onto the trunk road.

  After a further ten minutes, I discovered the turning, and was soon wending my way along a peaceful country lane over rolling countryside. The rain stopped, the sun peeped out from behind the thinning clouds and a rainbow appeared in a yellow field of rape-seed directly ahead. My spirits soared!

  Though the winding road kept my speed down, I felt, for the first time that day, comfortable in my new car. I wound down the windows: brown and white cows grazed in the fields, birds sang in the hedgerows, small hamlets with thatched cottages meandered past. Finally, with tired aching muscles but a smile of satisfaction, I entered the market town of Hitchin; in a short time I had found my way to the gates o
f St Peter's Hospital, and parked in front of the doctors' quarters; here I unloaded the suitcase of clean clothes, my record-player and my treasured collection of LP records. I consulted my wrist-watch – seven o'clock! I was just in time for supper.

  4

  Monday, 9th August: “Hector Parry-Jones here, one of the general practitioners ... Sorry to disturb you, Dr Scott ...” came the plummy voice down the telephone.

  It was eight o'clock, and I had just returned to my room after supper.

  “I've rather a sick man here – Mr Patrick Finnegan, aged sixty-two, heavy smoker – with a probable myocardial infarct. Central chest pain two hours, radiating into the neck and down the left arm. Blood pressure one hundred over sixty, pulse one hundred and ten ... Cold, clammy, appears shocked ... Ambulance has just arrived as I speak ...”

  “Could you get them to take him straight to Ward Ten, Dr Parry-Jones ... I'll await him there ...”

  Bang goes an evening with The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, I thought, as I put on a white coat, tucked in my stethoscope and patella hammer, locked the door, and made for the main hospital building.

  As I crossed the car park in the fading light, I noted a bulky figure in a sheepskin jacket, skulking near the entrance to the out-patients department. Is that Stanley Pollett? And who's he waiting for? I waved vaguely, but gave him a wide berth, my mind filled with details of the coming emergency; I strode on.

  Everything was prepared by the time Mr Finnegan arrived. He was transferred from the ambulance trolley straight on to the bed in the side-ward. He didn't need to undress as he was already in his own pyjamas; I waited a few minutes while the night nurse took his temperature, pulse and blood pressure, checked his respiratory rate, and then recorded these on the chart at the foot of the bed.

  “I'll examine him quickly, Mrs Finnegan, do a cardiogram, and then we'll get him started straight on treatment. If you could just wait next door in the visitors' room, I'll see you again as soon as I've finished ... Perhaps Staff-Nurse can get you a cup of tea while you're waiting.”

  The patient was pale, sweaty and apprehensive, with blue lips and nicotine-stained fingers. After a brief history, I proceeded to my examination. His pulse was weak but regular, rate one hundred and twenty per minute, peripheral pulses just palpable; blood-pressure was one hundred over sixty millimetres of mercury, jugular venous pressure normal. There were no heart murmurs, but heart sounds were rather distant and there was an apical triple rhythm. There were a few fine crepitations at the lung bases – otherwise the respiratory system was normal. Abdomen and central nervous system were unremarkable.

  “He certainly appears to have had a coronary, Nurse Peach ... I'll just take an electrocardiogram to confirm the diagnosis, Mr Finnegan; but we'll give you something for the pain first ... Morphine a quarter grain intramuscularly (his blood-flow is too sluggish for the subcutaneous route) ...”

  Belinda gave the injection into the left buttock. I applied the electrode jelly and electrodes to the limbs and chest; I ran the ECG, and then examined the tracing: Q waves and ST elevation in the anterior leads – a big myocardial infarct. I paused briefly to collect my thoughts.

  “Right, sir. The cardiogram confirms that you have had a heart attack. You'll be in bed for ten to fourteen days, and in hospital for six weeks. We'll give you something to thin the blood and put you in an oxygen tent directly ... How's the pain now?”

  But the patient's eyelids were beginning to droop, and his breathing was deeper and more relaxed. I checked him over again: his pulse rate had fallen to ninety-six, blood pressure was now one hundred over seventy.

  “Right, Belinda, I'll write him up for subcutaneous heparin and oral Dindevan (that's phenylindanedione), and he can continue with the morphine subcutaneously every four to six hours, as necessary for the pain. Perhaps you can clean up the electrode jelly and set up an oxygen tent, while I talk to Mrs Finnegan again ... then we'll need a four-hourly TPR and blood pressure chart ...”

  It was ten-forty by my wrist watch. I sat in the charge nurse's office, with a cup of cocoa in front of me, deciding whether to phone Brian Root. I'd made the correct diagnosis, and started the patient on the established treatment; I had tied up all the loose ends. I was satisfied – no need to disturb Brian. I'd fill him in before the beginning of tomorrow morning's ward round ...

  I was woken from a deep sleep by the ringing of the telephone. For a moment I lay there, disorientated, thinking it was my alarm clock. I switched on the light, glanced at the clock face – just before midnight – and fumbled with the telephone receiver.

  “Scott, here ...”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Dr Scott ... It's Sister in casualty. We've got a young man here; just brought in by ambulance in a coma. Dr Henson, our casualty officer, is dealing with rather a nasty multiple RTA at the moment; asked me to ring you ... More in your line than his ...”

  “Thanks, Sister. I'll be right over ...”

  I threw a jumper and a pair of trousers over my pyjamas, donned socks, shoes and white coat (with stethoscope and patella hammer already in its pockets), and hurried to casualty. Several ambulances were parked outside; inside was brightly lit and bustling with activity.

  A nurse showed me to an occupied cubicle, and handed me the patient's casualty card:

  “This is Mr Flowers, aged twenty-three ... Brought in by ambulance in a coma fifteen minutes ago ... Flat-mate called the ambulance, but didn't accompany him ...”

  He was a burly young man – probably played rugby. His face was flushed and he was breathing stertorously; he lay on the couch in the recovery position, his shoes and jumper on a chair, and a blood pressure cuff on his left arm.

  “Pulse ninety, regular; BP 150/90, moving all four limbs,” the young nurse continued.

  I examined him quickly: bounding pulse, blood pressure as recorded, alcohol on his breath; pupils were dilated, but reacted normally to light, muscle tone was normal; there was some voluntary movement of all four limbs in response to painful supra-orbital pressure.

  “Most likely hypoglycaemic coma – the alcohol probably contributed to the fall of the blood sugar. Can I have 50% glucose in two twenty-ml syringes, please, nurse?”

  The syringes were already drawn up and waiting for me on a tray. I inflated the blood pressure cuff to one hundred and ten millimetres of mercury, until the ante-cubital vein stood up like a tree trunk, and cleaned the skin with spirits.

  “Hold his arm firmly, in case he starts struggling as I inject ...”

  The needle slipped sweetly into the vein, a little blood entered the syringe as I drew back gently on the plunger; I deflated the blood pressure cuff and then, slowly, injected the glucose solution. After twelve millilitres, his eyelids fluttered, and he began to come round. Suddenly I felt his arm tense, but the nurse was holding it securely; then his eyes opened wide, and he was fully conscious. I injected the full twenty millilitres, but kept the needle in the vein, in case he relapsed into unconsciousness when I stopped.

  “You've had a bad hypoglycaemic attack, Mr Flowers ... I take it you are diabetic? (He nodded.) Just rest quietly for a few minutes, then I'll remove the needle ...”

  After fifteen minutes I allowed him to sit up, get dressed, and have a cup of sweet tea and a piece of toast with jam. I started writing up the notes.

  “Would you like a cup of tea or cocoa, Dr Scott?”

  “Cocoa would be lovely, Nurse ...”

  I continued writing.

  I'll pop in to see Mr Finnegan – my admission from earlier in the evening – before returning to bed ...

  My patient had just left (with instructions about maintaining his carbohydrate intake). The victims of the road traffic accident had had their X-rays; most of the injuries had been treated, but plaster of Paris was still being applied to the last limb by the casualty officer. As I prepared to leave the cubicle to join the nurse, I sensed a change of tempo outside; there was a fresh commotion: the noise of a trolley being wheeled into the waiting area
, and several voices speaking excitedly at the same time.

  The door to my room, which had been open a crack, now opened fully.

  That'll be my cocoa ...

  But, no: it was sister.

  “I'm afraid the casualty officer is still tied up. I wonder if you could take a look at another ... patient, Dr Scott? It's one of our nurses ...”

  I followed her to a neighbouring cubicle, my nascent anger turning to resignation. I glanced at my watch: half-past midnight ... It was going to be one of those nights.

  The patient lay on a casualty trolley. She was fully dressed in civvies (obviously off duty), with two nurses in uniform standing beside her. Her face was a mottled grey colour, and there was a tinge of blue to her lips. Good God, it's Shirley Jenkins! I hadn't recognised her at first glance. Her skin was still warm, but I could find no radial or carotid pulse, and there was no audible heart beat or breath sound. She was dead. I borrowed an ophthalmoscope – there was segmentation of blood in the retinal veins (so-called “cattle-trucking”) indicating circulatory arrest. I moved her limbs; muscle tone seemed normal and I didn't think that rigor mortis had set in yet, though I couldn't swear to that. My attention was attracted to her throat: there was a red line slightly indenting the skin of the neck just beyond the thyroid cartilage, but no bruising had developed around this, because of the early circulatory failure. The picture suggested a ligature strangulation, and the presence of petechial haemorrhages in the conjunctivae offered some confirmation of this diagnosis. The skin, though indented, was not penetrated – thus no evidence of a wire garotte.

  “I found her just outside the staff-nurses' and sisters' home, when I went for my break at midnight ...” She was a staff-nurse I didn't recognise, clearly agitated, close to tears.

  “You'll have to call the police, Sister ... This is not natural causes. She's been strangled with a ligature, like the tramp last month ... not a wire garrotte, or there would be a break in the skin ...”